Wednesday 26 April 2023

O your Colonel,, as a father (draft/unfinished)


O your Colonel,, as a father indemnified the door, 

on Salisbury plains stamping to an interspace 

of whispers that you are voiceless, again. 

Inside Praepostor Business Class 

a brig that sensation masts 

another's Earldom, ancestries: 

'I do not want to say any more 

thank you very much'

Believe again, or sweat, or blood: nothing inside 

the amp of shredded use values. 

All the forms & images 

in the world can be revoked

remembering your childhood  

A carousel hologram of a boat race appears

foppish fair haired boys in oak quad sculls, singing: 

‘What is a Stephen Christopher Yaxley?’

Logie Leggatt leads the line 

chalks over thinly whose clear body was so pure, & mine

after a moment looking out at the roaring sea, 

you ask what lies outside the White cliffs?  

to a single sweetly reply; 


that night-air claps & brisk’d my under cheek 

the heraldic bleed, Blue boys swilling on the beach

Cooee! cooee!  

A boat as good as brains! 

that one man was much like another 

said one man, on this vast floating army cum laude.

There are perks in chains of lead, said another. 

Enterprise of England, our armada 

in a ladened wraith, a dodo skeleton

in the morning you lay down

in the Recruitment Welfare Room, 

crawl space of its office carpet broadloomed  

& remember we ate all your Colonel,, as a fathers 

cheese in Kennington standing on a June morning 

hunched together. 

It is dark now along the rim 

& always dark & into my eyes

Bricklayers. Investors. Antecedents. Warfares.

O hanging from a steel pergola

a yawning feeling 

the working-catharsis it hiccups & collapses, glitches

a flower filled consort of fair ideals. Bulk again, 

of sweat, or blood: to nothing. Coat of arms, 

So what then!

 What will YOU do if agency workers cross the picket line, 

mangled by a baying pauper nest,

a little vinyl puppet from the 1960s, 

 his Facebook profile picture was the Thunderbirds villain The Hood,, The Social Mobility Foundation, 

a trove of skivers bone to bone, a breast outside 

as the skies rain cheese for all but me.


I returned depleted in the Musket Club at the Garrison.

Start again. What lies outside the White cliffs? 

a fallen head, a white corral of freezing networks  

a six-rink grass bowling green

to a virtued mansard roof

under no boss in Jack of Plate toxing bed,

to stiffen in chartered hails 

to eat Chartwells Free School Meals 

milligram by milligram 

Good over Evil, 

Life over Death 

depopulated centres enterprise children 2.0, 

& God is here on little screens 

above the concourse Sky News Broadcasts 

a perpetual loop of Dark Justice 

do you fuck kids to bleed in a line or switch in disguise 

you & what army? in the morning emulsifying 

under sunglass, a beating heart its raging quiver? 

starbursts reflect non-permanent futures 

a crown of tapered pilasters

its  crony parvenu crawls out 

of each in melamine 

Yellow plaintive 5 year chembinge 

the city wall is hell, as if in a mould;  

where the lid or stopper turns grey-silver 

like chainlinked around chrome 

a superstition is nothing but belief 

shined upon itself 

in five stages of grief the multitude on the beach growing 

& taking back a single sweet word drops out, but forgotten.

a starless sky the new dispensation sinks, 

homme moyen sensuel

in the mouths of transmitted deprivation 

one of the most totemic slogans of my life 

‘What is a Stephen Christopher Yaxley?’

& you again,, deranged  summoned forth your heart

the unnameable bodies

hectares splinters memories of home 

by the lonely song you bring,, 

take my sucking lips

 sunned in splendours gold 

its ‘social pathology’ under genebreaks 

biblica last masoned breaks to bore no title, 

 brought up in the ancestral home,  

Requiesce in pace to see the freezing 

of my Yaxleys old panoply of grimoires

or now in venerated sprigs

over chalk breaks like Dover Straits

& listen to the quarter peal of Stedman Caters, 

ringing as though sounding the tocsin 

through heart thrugs to fading 

an English light curls up my back 

to tap on the hypercondensation

the window sneaks a think-tank 

to translucent breached yew tree,

a coup operation; the Nationwide Festival of Light 1971

gradients of eternal bliss 

a berry for later, snaps Peers 

as the poverty lobby is galvanised to crypt it, 

to bury falling through the stairway at Bevin Court, 

the abolition of suffering 

moral standards crossbenchers your name is bleach

covered in a thin bronze skin, the basement of the building. 

& we could lay as Vladamir creaks out a whispered slue 

in the central linking drum,

 my eyes now glue 

weeping on the gallery floors you watch from 

the rooftop canopies, 

its tapering & thinning air, 

what is to be done with Hopton Wood Stone,

clipped now painted?

Bent ears to fagends 

it moves at night sometimes near anti-pigeon spikes 

pressing against the vulnerable white skin, 

the skin of a living boy, the skin without blood gradually, 

a chest without air, slackening thin stomach thinning 

caving into an antedate 

pure; strong, gradients of intelligent bliss orders 

gone missing, 

Y-shaped torn belthers on crimson thread, Yaxleys in the area. 

Again lilies mercifully I foul, out to the wildernesses

to crypt it, yes,

this act weakened me but, 

in a way, I have been cared for

yes, I am diminished 

but I am also emboldened, 

It feels like passion.  

Curve over its magnitude, richer like god on wort

like the Future's portal upward still, 

& onwards, is yours alone

so bend our Mayflower & steer boldly 

through the desperate winter sea, return to us 

that aching feeling, unresolved to be itself alone 

a crushing, Dover traffic status update. 

effective altruism phasing out suffering 

here tonight under this bluelight

meld all bleating goodstrong people's blood,

that is good &not shitmud! 

& I can see from fits of burning 

rubber ever glowing, never receding 

line of fealty choke,, s 

a bliss state of sublime well-being 

destined to become the feasibility of pains abolition

& the ethical choice Yaxleys hidden pickering to tilth.  

O your Colonel,, as a father

the fairest hushes of the wettest lips 

& uttermost purpose the World Health Organisation 

clangs  under the jib of a needle 

your own hands hijacked mid-hue 

The Transmitted Deprivation Research Programme 

 of intergenerational Montgomeries glinting 

the social market economy 

a painless bite, a mother's love, the profoundest peace,

a Jupiter brain managed rundown 

the utilitronium launches on pin-scales 

& logarithmic pulses a single namesake:

the State, 

a strike for your life! imp-

lore us; spectral Keith Josephs failing radiantly 

abolish pain below the hedonic zero 

& make all hearts to emulate its caustic preening,

the lumbar straits 

the baseline Sir Keith's scolded Schlaraffenland 

underneath the light there is always

intervening on the ground the pie-tree

fatlegged eating through a cloud of rice pudding; 

on the other side of the fence the Organising Group 

an empty apparition, 

basted in votives spilling outwards

'familial processes' are responsible,

the gene code Generation Merit; 

undog your living twilight 

& soften swells scratching at the lid

to ferret out every weak spot 

peel away each loose fleck 

the future society is

log scales birched & falling levity 

all things big & bright.